As I Was Drifting Away
by mahc
Summary: JED-DONNA - Donna Moss watches as the President faces his greatest tragedy and greatest challenge. How can she sit by and watch him drift away? First story in the "As I Was Drifting Away" series.
1. Chapter One

POV: Donna Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.  
  
As I Was Drifting Away - Chapter One A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Donna watched the President carefully, worry on her face, aching in her heart. He held his shoulders straight, his head up. Dignity and control apparently surrounded him, but she could tell he really wasn't aware of any of the somber pomp that occurred in the vast chamber they occupied. The eyes gave it away. Those eyes that were so sharp, so blue, so comprehending, those eyes now glazed over with the all-encompassing shock that had jerked him from innocent happiness into agonizing despair.  
  
The National Cathedral was packed with dignitaries from around the world, all paying their sympathetic respects to a Nobel prize winning economist, former governor and congressman, leader of the free world, who had suddenly been given a new, unwelcome identity: widower. They had filed past at the wake held earlier in the East Room at the White House, a room that served in similar sad capacity throughout the history of the building, most notably as the site where Abraham Lincoln's assassinated body lay in state. This time, it held the beloved wife of Josiah Bartlet.  
  
The mass ended. The powerful notes of the organ filled the church with "A Mighty Fortress is Our God," interestingly enough, a Lutheran, not Catholic, hymn.  
  
"He will need a mighty fortress," thought Donna. He will need a bulwark. How will he survive without it? How will he survive without her?  
  
She watched as the First Family, now incomplete, turned to leave, all other mourners standing silently in respect. The President looked right at her for a moment, but did not indicate that he saw her at all. She doubted that he saw anything except the red haze of pain that must pervade his whole being. They moved with dignity up the aisle, Zoey on one side, Ellie on the other. Liz and Annie followed directly behind. Knowing the President's past relationship with the his middle daughter, Donna found it heartening that Ellie had chosen to be one who walked next to her father.  
  
Jed Bartlet moved automatically, years of public appearances controlling his motions, yet he faltered once as he neared the doors, just a hesitation, as if he were reluctant to step back into the world without her by his side. His shoulders rose and fell in a heavy sigh. Ellie's hand found his in a poignant move that would be related over television and newspapers that day and the next. Then, they continued. Donna wondered at the significance of that moment.  
  
After that, Donna had lost sight of the mourning family, had exited the church with the other stunned members of the Bartlet staff, and had made her way to Josh's car. They would not be going to Manchester. Abigail Bartlet's body would be flown there on Air Force One, the President and their daughters accompanying it. The internment would be private, only immediate family, and Leo, of course, no cameras. The only reporter allowed was Danny Concannon, who attended as representative of the entire press corps. He would later write a simple, poignant piece about the loss of a vibrant, gracious First Lady and the strength of a President.  
  
Aides and assistants manned the White House that terrible weekend. The senior staff simply couldn't bear to walk through those halls and be bombarded with reminders of their loss and the leader's devastating tragedy. Instead, they all went to Josh's house, toasted Abigail Bartlet, and got drunk. It was the best they could do, under the circumstances. Donna knew they all wondered what would happen to Josiah Bartlet. He and Abbey were really one person. How could he continue without half of himself?  
  
She returned to her apartment early the next morning, still not quite able to grasp the brutal fact that the First Lady was dead. She could only imagine the difficulty the President must be having. Since the MS revelation, she knew he always felt he would be the one to die first, not from the MS perhaps, but maybe complications. It probably never occurred to him that his energetic, forceful life partner could leave him so abruptly. The First Lady of the land, and a doctor to boot, with the best medical resources at her disposal, had died instantly of a massive heart attack while on a trip to speak at a conference for children's healthcare.  
  
Donna had been in the Oval Office at the time, taking notes for Josh while he and the President discussed the White House's policy on aid to illegal immigrants. The banter had been light and she laughed at Jed Bartlet's quick wit. She closed her eyes at the disturbing memory of that moment when Leo and Ron Butterfield had interrupted, their faces giving away a dreadful message. Leo had indicated with a head jerk that they should leave and she remembered the rush of panic that she felt, knowing something big had happened. At the time, she had figured it was an invasion or hostage situation. She and Josh waited outside the door for a long time. Once, she thought she heard a moan from inside, but she wasn't sure. Finally, Ron came out, and for a second, she got a glimpse inside. The President sat on the couch, his back to the door, shoulders hunched, his head buried in his hands. Leo was next to him, his arms around his old friend. That was when Donna knew it must be Abbey. Nothing else could have affected him that way.  
  
Later, after the President had gone to the residence to be with two of his daughters that had arrived, Leo gathered the senior staff and told them the terrible news.  
  
"How is the President?" C.J. had asked, her own grief evident in the trembling voice and tearing eyes.  
  
Leo didn't answer. He told Toby and Sam to prepare a simple announcement and gave C.J. instructions to say that details would be forthcoming. If anyone asked, and they were certain to ask, the President was with his family and no other comments would be made at that time. The rest of the day had the fuzzy memory of a nightmare. Soap operas were pre-empted, CNN spent constant coverage on the incident and reported the transportation of the body from Chicago back to Washington, speculating that the President was too overcome to meet the plane at Edwards Air Force Base.  
  
"They were wrong," Donna thought with a touch of pride. The President had somehow pulled himself together and dragged the mantle of his office around him, standing straight and calm as the casket, an American flag draped over it, was removed from the rear of the 747. She later found out that he had collapsed once they got back into the limousine and Leo had held him all the way to the White House, but by the time they arrived, he had again become the controlled leader and had shown his strength to the watching world.  
  
Donna threw her keys on the table and stumbled into her bedroom, no longer fighting back the tears that spilled down her face, tears for her country's loss, tears for her President's loss, tears for her own loss. Her thoughts focused on him, though, and what must be going through his mind, if he could think at all. She wished she could do something for him, wished she could comfort him in some way. But she knew she couldn't. No one could. She just hoped that he could hold on until the future brought him something good, because he surely couldn't see past the present, and she had to believe there must be something else waiting for him. He was such a good man. There must be something more for him. 


	2. Chapter Two

POV: Donna Spoilers: None Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: These characters are not mine (but I wish they were).  
  
As I Was Drifting Away - Chapter Two A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
"Donna?"  
  
Donnatella Moss looked up from plowing through files and pushed strands of her straight blonde hair out of her face. In the doorway to her office stood Charlie Young, hand on the frame, leaning slightly into the room.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"The President needs to see you."  
  
She supposed that hearing those words would be a shock at any time, especially since she didn't really have any direct responsibility to President Bartlet, but now they seemed unusually surprising.  
  
"Me?" She knew her mouth was hanging open, but Charlie was kind enough not to comment.  
  
"Yeah. He's in the Oval."  
  
Well, of course he's in the Oval. Where else would he be? Forcing a deep breath into her lungs, she straightened and smoothed her dress, noticing the smirk on Charlie's face, but deciding to ignore it. Anybody would want to look their best when they were going to see the President, right?  
  
"Right. Okay. I'm coming."  
  
"Okay."  
  
As they walked through the West Wing, she turned to Charlie and asked, "Did he say why he wanted to see me?"  
  
"No."  
  
"I mean, did he need me to get him something?"  
  
"Don't know."  
  
"Or look up weather for him?"  
  
Charlie shrugged.  
  
"Or-"  
  
"I don't know, Donna. He just asked me to get you."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"How's he doing?"  
  
Charlie didn't look at her. "Okay," he answered, but it didn't seem very enthusiastic. Donna took the hint and stopped asking questions.  
  
The walked along for a few more minutes in silence and she reflected on the past eight months in the Bartlet White House. Eight months of surreal normality. Eight months without Abbey. After her death things had fallen into an uneasy stability. The President, publicly strong and competent, withdrew privately, interacting in a personal relationship only with his daughters, and occasionally, Leo. His stature in the eyes of America had grown even taller, with the courageous, calm demeanor he maintained throughout the agonizing ordeal. Donna had heard the whispered polling numbers. His approval rating had skyrocketed, but she knew no one would be so callous as to mention it in his presence.  
  
He remained polite enough to his staff, interacting with them in the necessary business of the day, but gone were the warm smiles, the easy wit, the light banter. All conversations covered only basics, the cut-and-dried facts. He worked late into the night in the Oval Office, as if he could not bear to return alone to the bed that he had shared with her. They all worried about him, especially Leo, who, even with his long history with Jed Bartlet, suffered from the President's stoic mask and determined silence in acknowledging his grief.  
  
The withdrawal made this summons even more curious. Donna knew that the President, who used to make a point of visiting informally with various members of his staff every few weeks or so, had not had even one evening like that since the First Lady's death. In fact, he rarely even spoke with C.J., Sam, Josh, or Toby. Instead, he relayed messages through Leo to them. What could he possibly want with her?  
  
They snaked their way through the halls and came to the outer office. Charlie held up a hand to indicate that she should wait, then stuck his head in the door. Donna heard the President's distinctive voice answer and the aide ushered her in.  
  
Taking a quick breath, she braced herself for what she might find. Rumors ran rampant about the President's appearance and health since his wife's death. Even though he had appeared on television numerous times since then, she still heard rumors that, in person, he had really aged. In person, he moved slowly, devoid of his old energy. In person, his eyes were old. So she braced herself to see the destruction of this wonderful man, this man who deserved much more.  
  
"Mister President," she said softly, warily.  
  
"Donna."  
  
To her surprise, he did not appear to be on the verge of collapse. He greeted her warmly, stepping up to her with apparent ease and placing a warm hand on her shoulder. His hair, which had already begun graying a little after his third year in office, didn't seem any grayer than before Abbey's death, and the smile that he now graciously gave her was just as charming, if not quite as joyful. Only his eyes gave away his true feelings. They still held the pain of loss, the loneliness he must face each night. But he pushed through that and led her to a couch.  
  
"Have a seat," he said.  
  
She eased down, still baffled about her requested presence. "How are you doing, Sir?" she asked, then mentally thumped herself on the head. Stupid question. Why did I ask that?  
  
But he just nodded and responded, "Okay. Thanks for asking."  
  
He took a place in the chair next to her. The one he usually occupied. The one he had been sitting in when Leo and Ron came in and- No. Don't think about that now. They simply stared at each other for a few minutes. What's happening here? she wondered.  
  
Finally, she garnered enough courage to ask. "Can I help you with something, Mister President?"  
  
He started to say something, stopped, then started again. "Leo thinks-Leo thinks I need some - lighter conversation."  
  
She frowned, not really sure where this was going. "Sir?"  
  
"Something that doesn't have anything to do with running the country. Something that will - "  
  
--distract you from your grief, she finished silently.  
  
"- be relaxing," he said, probably changing his original sentence.  
  
She shrugged. "And how can I help, Sir?"  
  
He took a deep breath. Did he seem nervous? Jed Bartlet? Surely not. She was reading him wrong. Then, he said something that sounded just like the Bartlet of old.  
  
"Donna, do you know what President did the most to promote the national park system?"  
  
Was this a test? All right, she did know. Let's see. It was a Roosevelt, right? Franklin? No. "Theodore Roosevelt."  
  
His eyes lit up. "Very good. What do you know about TR?"  
  
"Well, he was a member of the Rough Riders in the Mexican War and, uh, spoke softly and carried a big stick." Was that it? Anything else?  
  
"Spanish-American."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"He was in the Spanish-American War. The Mexican War was in 1848. The Spanish-American War was fifty years later."  
  
"Oh. Okay."  
  
"What else do you know about Teddy Roosevelt?"  
  
She thought about the history classes she had taken in her two years at college, but could not call any more vital information about that particular President. What was he doing, anyway? Well, if Leo had sent her in here as a distraction, she would certainly fulfill her mission. It was good to talk to the President again. "I'm not sure I know a great deal about President Roosevelt, Sir," she finally admitted.  
  
His mouth lifted a bit and it surprised her. The first smile she had seen in over half a year. "Trivia."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Trivia. He was full of knowledge about any subject and enjoyed regaling his visitors, sometimes welcomed, sometimes not, with information."  
  
"Sounds familiar, Sir." Oh. Did she say that aloud?  
  
But he passed over her comment. "Yes. Only I haven't really been able to - share my trivia with anyone recently." Now his smile faded and she bit her lip in sympathy. "I guess I just-" He paused as a thought occurred to him. "Do you play Trivial Pursuit, Donna?"  
  
Champion of the Moss Family Reunion Trivial Pursuit Marathon, three years in a row. Leo had known that, hadn't he? She remembered Josh saying something about it in the presence of the Chief of Staff. "Y-Yes, Mister President."  
  
"Well, I thought we'd.Would you be interested in" He cleared his throat again and she was shocked to realize that he really was nervous. "How about a match tonight? You can come to the residence. I'll have the kitchen whip up some snacks and we can pit our minds."  
  
Oh wow! "I think I'm hopelessly outmatched, Mister President, but I'll be honored to do my best." She was still stunned that he had even invited her to the Oval Office, now she tried to comprehend a personal invitation to the private residence of the President of the United States to play a game of Trivial Pursuit and eat snacks. Unbelievable.  
  
"Okay." He seemed relieved and terrified at the same time. "I'll have Charlie let you know when to come. He and Zoey can join us. I've got a few more things to deal with here before I go to the residence." He smiled again, and even though it still didn't reach his eyes, she heard the anticipation in his voice.  
  
"What was the code name for the Invasion of North Africa?" Donna flipped over the small card in her hand to check the answer, but before she could find it, the President had already responded and was reaching for another triangular pie to add to his nearly full playing piece.  
  
"Operation Torch. I roll again."  
  
"Fine." She tossed the card onto the table and reached for another, frowning at the lonely single pie in her token. He had graciously allowed her to begin and she felt a moment of hope when the first question had asked who played Scarlett O'Hara in Gone With the Wind. Then it had been some inane leisure question about wines and she bombed. From then on, he had not missed a single one.  
  
"Isn't this fun?" he asked.  
  
Whoopie. I really enjoy getting creamed in Trivial Pursuit by the Master Wizard of Triviadom. Aloud, she agreed.  
  
Still, it was nice to see him happy, and he did seem much more relaxed. She glanced over at Charlie and Zoey, their chins in their palms, waiting for turns that had not yet even begun.  
  
"Dad," the First Daughter said, "Charlie and I are going to go to the kitchen and make a sandwich. Call me when, or if, it is ever my turn."  
  
Jed looked up, surprised. Then he nodded, apparently understanding that the young couple's actions had more to do with being together than with quitting the game. Donna decided he had come a long way in his attitude toward his youngest daughter's relationship with his bodyman. Their departure prompted a break in play.  
  
"You need more to drink?" he asked, startling her.  
  
She nodded, and he reached for the glass just as she did; their fingers touched. Donna was surprised at the electric shock that jumped through her. She raised her eyes to meet his and saw that he had felt the same thing. For a moment, his hand stayed on hers, then he pulled back and cleared his throat.  
  
"Ah. I think maybe that's enough for tonight, Donna. Thanks for coming up." He stood and his smile returned. "I really enjoyed it."  
  
Confused, she rose uncertainly. "Uh, okay, Mister President. Maybe we can do this again?"  
  
"Sure. That'd be great." He seemed too eager for her to go, stepped to the door and opened it. She had no choice but to walk through it.  
  
Back at home that night, she lay in her bed thinking about the evening and why the President had chosen her to play Trivial Pursuit with. Then, as she drifted off to sleep, she felt again the warmth and tingle of his fingers on hers. It was a good feeling.  
  
"Donna?"  
  
She looked up to see Charlie again. He didn't have to say a word this time. She knew what he wanted. A few moments later, she knocked on the door to the residence, just as she had every other night the past two weeks. Jed Bartlet opened the door and waved her in. He looked good, more relaxed tonight than any other night before. He wore jeans and an open- collared sweater that fit nicely across his broad chest. His hair hung over his forehead in a more casual look than he wore in the office. On previous nights, Charlie and Zoey had been there, and sometimes Leo participated, even though she knew he hated Trivial Pursuit. But he did it for the President. Tonight, however, they seemed to be the only players.  
  
"Come on in, Donna," he greeted, turning toward the game board, already set up. "I think tonight's your night."  
  
This was generous. The best she had done so far was three pies and she had actually cheated for one of those. Still, she had to admit she was enjoying these sessions with the President, and Leo had let her know, in a round-about way, that they were beginning to make a difference in the President's attitude.  
  
Settling onto the couch, she reached for the dice to roll it. Instead of his place in a separate chair, as he had done before, the President sat next to her, his thigh touching hers lightly. He didn't seem to notice, but she felt an immediate and unexpected surge rush through her. If she hadn't known better, she would have described it as sexual. But that couldn't be - could it?  
  
Of course not. Forget it. Roll the Dice. Move the piece.  
  
After a moment, she realized he asked her a question. "What?"  
  
"You need me to repeat it?" he said, amused.  
  
Since I have no idea at all what you just said - "Yes, Sir."  
  
"Of whom is Hamlet speaking when he tells Horatio, 'I knew him'?" His glasses balanced down his nose, he looked over them at her for the answer.  
  
I know this. Hamlet. Hamlet. Alas, Poor - "Yourick!"  
  
"Yes!" He laughed, showing his pleasure that she was right; it made her feel warm.  
  
As the evening continued, she seemed to be getting more and more correct, and he was uncharacteristically missing some. Finally, she stood poised to answer the game-winner. He selected the history category and read.  
  
"What two Presidents have earned PhD's? Oh please." His eyes rolled and he shook his head. "Might as well just give you the title now. If there are any easier questions, I haven't seen-"  
  
"Mister President!"  
  
"Okay. Sorry."  
  
All right. One was a given. Josiah Bartlet, PhD in Economics. Nobel Winner. Who was the other? Kennedy? No. He wrote a book, but - Clinton? Rhodes Scholar, but not PhD. "Wilson!" she exclaimed at the same time she thought of it. "Woodrow Wilson and -let me think - hmmm - who - "  
  
He growled and she laughed. "Oh yes, some President named Bartlet, I think."  
  
He looked down at the board and smiled. "Well, Donna, that gives you a victory, I believe. Congratulations."  
  
She did it! After weeks of inglorious and humiliating defeats, she had done it. She had beaten Josiah Bartlet in trivia. Suddenly elated by her feat, she jumped up and threw her arms around his neck. Laughing, he stood with her and hugged her back, obviously happy for her. When she pulled away just a little, their eyes met and she realized his mouth was only inches away from hers, his hands were on her hips, and her breasts were pressing into his chest. Logic screamed for her to back up, to step away before it was too late, but logic really had no control over the situation. Even as she berated herself for doing it, she moved forward so that her lips touched his, gently, softly. She sensed his surprise, but also felt him respond, his mouth moving on hers, his hands drawing her to him, his hips against hers, making his reaction obvious. The kiss lasted several moments, long enough for their tongues to mingle warmly, before she felt him stiffen and step back suddenly.  
  
They stared at each other, both stunned. Then, he regained his composure and cleared his throat. "That was - a good game, Donna," he managed, voice hoarse. "Thanks for playing. I'll uh - I hope you have a good night."  
  
And it was over. She stood in her office before she went home and she still felt his lips on hers, his hands burning through her clothing, his hard warmth against her pelvis. And she realized she had wanted that to happen. She was glad it had happened. That night, she dreamed of him, dreamed of what might be next, dreamed of his hands moving from her hips to other places on her body. She had hoped something good waited for him. Was she it? Was that too presumptive? Could she be an instrument in bringing him back to himself? Twisting restlessly in the covers, she anticipated what would happen the next night or two nights from then when she returned.  
  
But Charlie didn't call her the next night, or the next, or the next. She tried not to let the depression settle on her, telling herself that what had happened was obviously an accident. He did not intend to pursue anything resulting from their momentary loss of control. That was as it should be. He was a widower, her father's age, and the President of the United States. Why, then, did the thought that nothing would come of it disappoint her?  
  
Finally, over a month after the first Trivial Pursuit game, Charlie came to get her again. Nervous tingles jumped across her skin as she approached the Residence, mind racing through possible things he might say. Trying to find appropriate responses, trying to decide where she wanted this to go.  
  
She entered to find him facing a crackling fire in the fireplace, its warm leaping glow flickering over him, the only other light from a table lamp. He wore the same sweater he had on that first evening. She liked that sweater. Okay. Don't think that. See what he wants first.  
  
He turned at her entrance and smiled slightly, motioning for her to sit. She shook her head.  
  
"How are you, Sir?  
  
He didn't answer, but got right down to business. "Donna, I think we need to talk."  
  
Uh oh. That didn't sound good at all. "About what, Mister President?"  
  
The surprise on his face amused her. "About - what happened last time we were -together."  
  
"You mean during the Trivial Pursuit game?"  
  
"Yeah. I needed to apologize to you, Donna. I don't know what came over me. I suppose it had been so long - " He trailed off and the pain in his voice showed how difficult it was for him to say the words. "I just - got carried away for a minute and - you certainly didn't deserve to be a victim of my weakness."  
  
She looked at him, surprised. Couldn't he tell she had responded willingly? Didn't he realize - But how could he when she was just realizing it herself. She was shocked to hear the words come from her lips.  
  
"But Mister President, I wanted to do that."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I wanted - I wanted to kiss you. I wanted you to kiss me."  
  
He stared at her for a long minute, eyes wide with incredulity, mouth open. Finally, he managed a response.  
  
"That's absurd," he choked out. "I'm 30 years older than you, Donna."  
  
Okay. This was it. She talked now or never. She had nothing to lose. Might as well go for broke. "You are young, Mister President. Every move you make, every twinkle in your eye, every joke says it. You are young. It doesn't matter how long you've lived." She meant it, meant it with all her heart.  
  
His voice dropped now, so low that she had to lean forward to grasp his hoarse mutter. "It hasn't - it hasn't been long enough."  
  
She knew what he meant. "It's been too long, Mister President," she countered, courage growing with each word. He looked up in surprise at the vehemence in her tone. Taking advantage of his silence, she continued. "Abbey wouldn't want this, would she? Wouldn't want you morose and wallowing in pity and misery. Would you want her to be if it had been you?"  
  
Her words hit him hard, she could tell. Whether or not they would work the way she intended, she wasn't sure yet. He drew in a ragged breath, steadied himself with one hand on the back of a chair. The agony in his face reached into her chest and twisted her heart. She hated seeing him so torn, so lost. It was so unlike the confident, cocky Jed Bartlet she remembered from almost a year ago.  
  
"I don't - I don't know - if I can," he admitted finally, softly.  
  
Those words, spoken with such pain and uncertainty, drew her to him slowly. He did not look up when she stood toe to toe with him, did not acknowledge that he was even aware of her presence, but she heard his breath come a little faster, saw his chest rise and fall. If she didn't take the chance now, she knew she might never take it. Moving slowly so that he could step back if he chose to, she reached up to run her fingers across his jaw, cupping it gently in her palm. He did not recoil.  
  
Okay, so far, so good. Her other arm came up and she held his face in both hands, unable to suppress a gasp when his eyes met hers and she read the mixture of emotions in them: guilt, hope, and - possibly, she thought, a tiny gleam of desire. Oh, she hoped so.  
  
Still, he did not move. Leaning in, she touched her lips to his, just brushing him, then pulled back to judge his reaction. His lips had parted, his eyes widened at her actions. She thought he was about to speak, and moved before he could stop her, kissing him again, this time with more pressure, letting out only a fraction of the passion and desire she now realized she had suppressed for a long time. After a moment, his mouth softened against hers and his tongue slipped between her lips. She fought back a scream of triumph, settling for a moan that drew an immediate response from him. He grasped her around the waist and pulled her to him, his mouth now hard and insistent, his hands slipping lower to press her hips into his. A thrill ran through her when she felt his arousal, hot and hard against her, even through the jeans he wore. Her hands pushed upward, shoving his shirt away from his body, running fingers through the hair on his chest. One hand dropped lower, slipping open the button of his jeans. He moaned, arching into her palm, and she smiled at the hard pulse. She felt them both losing control, and knew that in only a few moments, they would be on the couch, or the floor maybe -  
  
"Oh, God!" He scratched his way out of the heated embrace and stood, staring at her in disbelief, bare chest heaving, jeans bulging, hair falling into his eyes. "Oh, Donna," he groaned. "I'm - I'm so sorry." Combing a hand through his hair, he snatched up his shirt and scrambled back into it, then turned toward the fireplace and shook his head. "I can't believe I - Oh, God. I can't - "  
  
The breaking voice, so uncharacteristic, threatened to undo both of them. Donna was determined, however, not to let him fall back into the depths of loneliness and pity. "Mister President," she began.  
  
"No! No. I - can't. I just-" He faced her again. "I'm sorry, Donna. I know you're trying to help. But - I can't do it. Not yet. Not now."  
  
A smile touched her lips. "I understand," she assured him softly. "But I want you to know this. I'm not doing this to try to help."  
  
His head cocked a little to one side, as it frequently did when he was trying to figure something out. She was at the edge. Did she dare keeping moving? With a deep breath she leaped.  
  
"I'm doing this because you are a warm, wonderful, handsome, sexy man, Jed Bartlet, and I am very attracted to you."  
  
She suppressed a wider grin when his jaw dropped. He stared at her, unable to put a sentence together.  
  
"Wow," she laughed. "I made Josiah Bartlet speechless. That deserves some type of award, I think."  
  
After a full minute of silence, he managed pull himself together a little bit, clearing his throat and shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. "Um, Donna, I'm, uh, flattered, you know. It's certainly sweet of you to say that-"  
  
Throwing a palm up before her, she stopped him, amazed at her confidence. "You may not be ready. It may not be time, but I will not have you think I am merely patronizing you or pitying you. I'll be here when you are ready. Any time."  
  
Using his astonishment to her advantage, she backed out of the door, tossing him a final seductive smile as he stood, eyes on her, hand still deep in his pockets. Stunned at her own brazen words and actions, she didn't know how long he remained in that position after she left. 


	3. Chapter Three

This is the last part of this story, but there are subsequent stories in the series. If there are any readers interested in them, I'll continue.  
  
POV: Donna Spoilers: None Rating: R Disclaimer: I'm having fun with these characters, but they're not mine.  
  
As I Was Drifting Away - Chapter Three A West Wing Story  
  
By MAHC  
  
The one-year anniversary of the First Lady's death came and went with subdued recognition. The President had requested it to be that way. Only a small acknowledgement on the networks, showing the motorcade moving from the airport at Manchester toward the Bartlet family farm. From there, America could only imagine the private moments their leader spent at his wife's grave, could only envision the tears that splashed on the rocky soil.  
  
Donna imagined it, too. Wondered what he was feeling. Wondered if he had thought about their moment anymore, if he had let go, yet. If he ever would. She knew he had wanted her. That much was physically obvious during their embrace. But was he ready? She had told him she would be there when he was, but what if he never was? What if he kept drifting away and never really came back to them, to her?  
  
She was in the West Wing when he returned. Even if she had not known he was arriving, she could have told by the atmosphere in the building. His presence charged it with energy, with purpose, with life. She wanted to go to him, to welcome him home, to tell him it was okay. She would be there just to play Trivial Pursuit, if that's what he wanted. But she couldn't. He had to decide. He had to make the move.  
  
Exactly one week after the anniversary, Charlie appeared at her door, a note in his hand. Without a word, he placed it on her desk and weaved his way back through the bullpen. Fingers shaking, she lifted the crisp white envelope and slid the folded note out. In bold, confident strokes, the words invited her: Dinner. 7:30. My place. J.B.  
  
She arrived at 7:25, could have been there at 6:25 because she had been ready since a quarter of six. She smoothed down the straight red dress, pleased that it accented her best attributes but a little worried about her boldness, because, except for her shoes, that was all she wore. The secret service apparently expected her. They merely nodded as she passed on her way to the residence. When she reached the door, Charlie greeted her with a tentative smile.  
  
"He's waiting," he said, unnecessarily, opening the door, then closing it behind her.  
  
The President stood by the fireplace, almost in the same position he had the last time they had been alone together. Except this time he was dressed for dinner. Boy, was he dressed. Black tuxedo, black tie. Wow. Turning, he smiled when he saw her and she blushed at the blatant appreciation on his face.  
  
"Donna! You look beautiful."  
  
"Thank you, Mister President. I could say the same for you."  
  
His brow rose.  
  
"Well, handsome, anyway."  
  
"I, uh, I took the liberty of selecting dinner. Blackened halibut with a Cajun puree. I hope that's all right." He seemed so earnest, so eager to please that she couldn't help smiling.  
  
"It sounds wonderful. But I'd eat it just for the hal-i-but - "  
  
He paused and she watched as he absorbed the punch line. His smile made her grateful that he allowed her this horrible pun without a groan or sarcastic comment. Setting her purse down by the couch, she took the offered glass of wine from his hand, purposefully brushing her fingers against his. Oh yeah. The spark was there, just as strong as before.  
  
When she lifted her gaze, a tremor ran through her. He was watching her, his eyes running up the red fabric, lingering a bit at her breasts, then rising to her face. She could tell from the tight jaw that he wrestled still with his emotions, but letting her gaze drop, she also saw the obvious evidence of her effect on him. He followed the line of her eyes and blushed when he realized she was aware of his arousal.  
  
Clearing her throat, she pulled the glass away and asked, "When's dinner?" Even though if he asked, she would admit she really didn't want dinner. Not now. Not yet. No. I want -  
  
He shrugged, and his flush deepened. "I, uh, I told the kitchen I'd - let them know."  
  
What? Oh wow. Okay. That meant - that meant he wanted - Okay, calm now. Breathe. Outwardly, she hoped she maintained at least a semblance of casualness, even though her heart pounded, and anticipation tingled between her legs.  
  
"I'm not really hungry right now, anyway," she said and watched his eyes widen.  
  
Finally, he sighed and set his glass on the low table. "Donna - "  
  
"Yes?" Yes. That's my answer.  
  
"Donna, I've thought a lot about what you told me, and - maybe, well - maybe I'm not -"  
  
He lowered his head, words coming uncharacteristically hard for him. Despite what his body was urging him to do, Donna could tell his heart still held him back, still gripped the sinew that bound him with a woman he had loved for over thirty years. As she watched, the heart began to win, to pull him back. He was drifting away again.  
  
Still not meeting her eyes, he mumbled, "Donna, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"  
  
No! "Mister President," she began, then stopped and rethought, moving to place her hand on his forearm. "Jed." She put all the compassion she could into the name.  
  
It worked. He raised his head to look at her, clouded eyes showing that he still warred with his feelings. They both knew what was about to happen. Knew this moment was inevitable, if only because he had probably reached the point at which his physical needs overwhelmed his emotional turmoil.  
  
Removing her hand, she set down the glass of wine and faced him, summoning the courage to deliver her desire in a bolt of frankness. "I would like for you to make love to me."  
  
Even though he knew that's what the evening was all about, her stark announcement floored him. She saw the shock on his face, watched the blood rush into his cheeks, saw him swallow hard once, twice. Please don't say no. Don't keep drifting. Please.  
  
After a long, long moment, he drew a breath. "I've only been with Ab-with one woman. I was going to be a priest, you know," he smiled, his face flushing even more.  
  
Donna shook her head and stepped closer, placing her hand against his cheek. He looked up, eyes filled with the pain of guilt, of infidelity, of adultery. She tried to smile. "You've got to start living again," she whispered. "Abbey's gone, but you're here. And I'm here." She took a deep breath. "And I want you to make love to me, and I want to make love to you. You won't be betraying Abbey."  
  
Looking into his eyes, she now saw something else. The heart faltered a bit, gave ground enough for a decision. A resolution. A coming to terms.  
  
"Donna," he said slowly. "Are you sure?"  
  
Her answer was to press her body against his and drag her tongue across his lips, parting, then moving between them. Her hand on his chest felt the jump of his heart just as her hips felt the pulse against them. Thank goodness! Was this really happening? Would she let it happen? Did she really want this? Oh, yes! Oh, yes, she did.  
  
"Donna," he groaned into her mouth as she pushed the tuxedo jacket off his arms.  
  
"Mmm?" she managed to respond as his feverish kisses left fiery trails down her throat.  
  
"It's been - it's been over a year since - "  
  
She arched her neck and smiled at his confession. "Don't worry, we'll - go slow."  
  
"I don't know if I can go slow," he admitted, pulling back so she could see his grin, the first true, deep, genuine smile he had shown in months. It looked so good on him.  
  
"Then we'll just go - a lot." She pulled at his tie until it unraveled, then opened the first two buttons of the crisp, white shirt.  
  
His eyes darkened and he caught a breath at her insinuation. "Oh, Donna, I want to make it good for you. I want to take as long as you need."  
  
She moaned, unbuttoning the shirt all the way and running her hands through the hair on his chest. That sounded exactly like what she wanted him to do.  
  
"But," he added, his voice cracking, "it's been too long. I can't wait-"  
  
She stopped him, her hand over his lips. When he looked at her with a question in his eyes, she answered by stripping off her dress, bearing her body to him. His hands reached up to caress her breasts, to rub at the nipples. She pushed him backwards until they fell onto the bed, her weight on him, the hard ridge pressing into her. Groaning, she lifted off him long enough to rip his trousers and boxers down. Oh wow! Very nice. Very nice, indeed. Their eyes met briefly as he guided her over the impressive erection. Straddling him, she slid down in one firm thrust, moaning at the sensation. She saw the ecstasy on his face, watched his head lean back, felt his hands on her hips driving her onto him harder and harder. He needed this. He had to have this now. Later there would be time for a slow love, heat building and building until they could not hold back, but now he needed the release that he had denied himself for over a year.  
  
She thought only to let him come, to relieve him of his intense need, but he surprised her, holding out as his hands touched her intimately, expertly, the slick path of his tongue igniting a flaming desire in her, until she found herself bucking just as wildly as he was. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip and she felt him pull her to him then turn so she was beneath him. He withdrew long enough to rid himself completely of all clothing except his shirt, which he couldn't shed quickly enough because of the binding cuff links.  
  
She moaned, aching for him, and shook her head for him to forget the damned shirt. The plunge back inside drew a gasp from her lips. Oh, this was so good. He was so good, and he was so close, she could tell, and he would come hard, no question about that. She felt him stiffen and she arched her hips so that he was buried as deeply as she could take him. His cry was wrenched from deep within as he came violently, thrusting, throbbing, pumping. Over and over, he thrust into her, tears tracing paths down his face. His climax triggered an unbelievable explosion inside her, her own muscles spasming around him, and she lurched her head back, screaming his name with each pulse.  
  
A long time later, she found herself sprawled under of the President of the United States, their exhausted bodies slick and sticky. She reached up a hand to run it through his hair, wild and damp. Wow.  
  
The expression on his face brought tears to her eyes. He was looking down at her, his blue eyes soft, his mouth opened slightly. Cupping her chin with both hands, he placed a gentle kiss on her lips, then rolled off her to lie on his back, pulling her against him, her head on his shoulder, a leg draped over his pelvis. Carefully, she removed the offending cuff links and pushed the damp shirt from his body, because they weren't through for the evening. Not by a long shot.  
  
"My God, that felt good," he groaned.  
  
She smiled, happy that she had given him such pleasure, but she wanted him to know it was mutual. "Well, let me just say that it felt pretty incredible to me, too, Sir."  
  
He looked down, grinning. "I think 'Jed' is appropriate, considering the fact that my hand is on your breast right now."  
  
Her turn to redden. "Jed," she whispered.  
  
"Besides," he continued, "I've had a few more years' exp-"  
  
She watched as he caught himself and she knew he was thinking about those years of experience and who they were with. She felt him tense, sensed the emotional withdrawal begin.  
  
"Jed." She leaned over him, drawing his face to hers. "Abbey is not here. I am here. This is not a betrayal. This is life!"  
  
His mouth parted to speak, but she shook her head. "No. Don't say anything, yet. Let's just - keep this moment a little longer. Please."  
  
He hesitated, then nodded, dropping his head back onto the pillow while she drew invisible circles across his chest and abdomen. What now? What was he feeling? Thinking? She knew he would never stop loving Abbey. Knew that part of his life would always be with him. But she also knew he could not keep drifting away. He had to set a course, and she wanted to help him navigate it. Tonight, he had taken a step. A big step. But what did it mean to him? Merely a step toward getting past Abbey's death, or something more?  
  
She cut her thoughts off, refusing to let them intrude on the moment. It occurred to her vaguely that the halibut might as well be consumed by the kitchen staff; she doubted it would make its way to residence tonight. Letting her hand drift lower, she smiled, discovering that, although he might not be emotionally ready to continue, he certainly was physically ready. She supposed a year really was a long time.  
  
As she took him in again, she determined to be as patient as he needed. It had taken months for him to reach this point, and it might take months more for him to see that she loved him. The sudden revelation stunned her, stopped her so cold that he slowed and looked down in puzzlement. She recovered, moving her mouth to his and urging him with her hips to resume his delicious rocking. But it was true, she knew immediately. She loved him. Clutching at his back as they groaned again in climax, she felt the tears burn her eyes. She loved him. And she had no doubts, now, that he would not drift away, that one day he would love her, too. 


End file.
